


holding space

by bearlytolerable



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alistair x Cousland - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bethany does not like Alistair at all at first, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flashbacks, For the most part, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love after Loss, Memories, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but not quite enemies, except the convenient calling plot, otherwise canon is tossed out the window, so this fic can be possible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27657020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearlytolerable/pseuds/bearlytolerable
Summary: Alistair’s a grieving widower wondering if he can make it another day. But when his son takes a tumble, he finds a singular cause worth living for. In the process, he learns about healing and friendship and maybe even finds a second chance at love.
Relationships: Alistair/Bethany Hawke
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This does start out pretty dark and depressing. If suicide mention or anything to do with suicidal thoughts is triggering, I highly recommend skipping this chapter.

Regret.

It’s the only word that seemed to come to Alistair’s mind as he stared down at the stage. Why had he come here? He supposed it was for some sort of relief from himself. Six months of moping had been allowed but now the whole court was practically shoving him out to social events. So he had done their bidding. Now the whole damn stage just reminded him of her. This place was _hers_ . He could see it in every detail. Right down to the swirling floral filigree carved into the railing right in front of him. It was the amount of thoughtfulness that she had put into this place that left _her_ mark on it. It was for this reason that Duncan Theater couldn’t even bring him some joy in a dark time and part of him wished she hadn’t given him this beautiful permanent gift at all.

But then again, he thought, if he spent all his time wishing good gifts away, he might as well wish her away and that was simply foolish. Memories of her was all he had left. 

Alistair sat in the balcony, shoulders slouched and crown sitting crooked as performers spoke their dramatic lines. He tried to focus. But his mind kept dragging him away with an internal screaming and struggling. He heard nothing and saw nothing except for the dark room of his mind. He had a shroud of sadness about him that couldn’t be shed. His heart was parched and he didn’t know how to keep on in such a state.

He still saw her face, in his mind, cold and lifeless. It was not _her_ face, the one he last saw. She was never that way in reality. No, the damn calling had taken her away from him. She kept insisting she must go and he was powerless to stop her. When the dwarves had kindly returned her body to him, she was nothing like what he remembered. She was that image that clung to him. Cold, gray, and sallow. In life, she encapsulated the essence of living and breathed that life into anyone she came into contact with. The taint had completely robbed her of that in the end. If only it had taken him instead.

_Think positive thoughts, Alistair._

The room around him stood in applause while he sat with his chin in hand.

He supposed it was decent that the dwarves had made her peaceful despite all the suffering she’d gone through. 

He missed her soft smile and the light she had in her eyes. She was his hopeless optimist. She was his home. She was his sun. He thought knowing she was going to die would make things easier but death wasn’t easy. No matter how much one prepared for it, death still came as a surprise. And death remained, cloaking him in its shadow, following him around night and day like an unwanted family member.

Like Eamon–Maker rest his soul.

His heart and mind spiraled. Alistair scolded himself. He was King and he was to handle this with great stoicism. Or something like that. Still, the scolding did nothing to chase away the grief. It did nothing to help him feel at home in his own body. Just a foreigner to himself, like the person he knew was buried with his wife. 

Fergus Cousland, a dear friend and his late wife’s brother, squeezed his hand next to him and gave him an empathetic look. Alistair knew this man probably understood his grief better than anyone having lost his whole family. Guilt for feeling sorry for himself began to pile on top of everything else.

“I apologize,” Alistair whispered, “I must excuse myself. I’m in need of some fresh air.” 

Fergus nodded and offered a sad smile. Alistair hated those sad, pitiful smiles but he’d never tell anyone that. He’d received nothing but those smiles for six months straight. Just because he was King didn’t mean he felt a deeper heartache than anyone else who had lost someone yet everyone, nobles and commoners alike, treated him like he was special. Yet the expectation for him to rule as nothing happened still hung over him. The people couldn’t have it both ways. It drove him mad.

Alistair stood and threw the hood of his cloak up, slipped out of the theater into the cool evening air. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to warm the coldness that he couldn’t seem to shake-it was always there, inside of him no matter the weather these days-and scurried off toward the bridge that crossed over to the noble estates from Denerim square. 

The river was a peaceful sort of place, where the gentle lapping of water lulled you into a thoughtless trance. Alistair hung his arms over the railing, couldn’t bear to look at his reflection and waited for his mind to clear. He watched as a young couple snuggled up against each other on the bench situated near the shore, the young man rubbing gentle circles into the woman’s back. She kept one hand on her stomach while the other was wrapped around his waist. It brought back memories from long ago and he squeezed his eyes shut to remember her. 

_“Alistair, I have the best news in all the world,” Elissa smiled down on him, curly black tendrils of hair framing her face. She squeezed his shoulder and then kissed his cheek._

_He waited patiently for her to tell him because her smile grew wider with each minute that passed. He thought she might burst before she would tell him the news._

_“We’re having a baby!” She squealed and he whooped for joy, jumping out of his seat and twirling her around. He kissed her deeply before looking into the depths of her dark brown eyes. Maker, she was beautiful._

_“I never thought it would be possible. Not for lack of trying.”_

_“Me neither.” She laughed and pulled him to her, nuzzling into his chest. “But then again, you and I have become quite good at achieving the impossible.”_

_“It’s still a miracle,” he told her. She murmured an agreement._

_He squeezed her so tight for as long as he could. After a moment she said, “By the way, I’m naming him Bryce.”_

_“No, we’re naming him Duncan. How do you know it’s a him anyway?” Alistair asked._

_She pulled away and lay her hands on her swelling belly. “I just have a feeling…” she said, staring at her barely there belly with a joy Alistair could feel from where he was standing. Then she glanced back at him, a playful smirk on her lips. “And while I appreciate your name suggestion, my precious Ali, it’s Bryce. Bryce the Second._

_He shook his head and laughed. “We’ll see about that.” Then he hugged her tight and kissed her._

He cried silently there against the railing of the bridge. He missed her more than anything in the world. A love like hers—what he had—was a once in a lifetime experience. So the life he was living without her was empty and hollow. It seemed hopeless. Too dark. He was certain he couldn't go on. That certainty seemed to swallow him constantly. He was so tired of it. Tired of fighting it. He wondered if Bryce would be better off without him. What kind of father wallowed like this? Wallowed so much that he couldn’t rule properly. Let alone _father_ properly. He thought of all the ways the boy would be better without him in fact. 

The news of his death would be terrible for the boy, of course but people were resilient. He would miss Alistair but he was young and Alistair would just be a sad memory for him. He would move on. Besides, Alistair would die someday. Better to be gone when he was young so the memory could be wiped clean. Fergus could teach him proper etiquette and Teagan would be an excellent mentor in all things _Royal_ so he would turn out alright. He thought it would be better for Bryce if he didn’t have to see his father moping around for an eternity, a lost soul unto himself. Best to be nonexistent than a ghost wandering the halls. Wouldn’t want the poor boy to suffer as he did as a child. At least the dog would sleep in his bed rather than the other way around.

Alistair climbed through the wooden railing to stand on the very edge of the bridge, the waters below seemed to whisper to him. _Jump_ . _Jump. Jump._ He considered what life without all this grief, this anguish, this heavy heart might be like. It would be so free. So _free._ He shut his eyes, let the whisper draw him in. All he needed to do was let go.

But then—

“It’s King Alistair!” A group of high pitched voices brought him back to reality, hands firmly gripping the railing as they swarmed him.

He carefully turned to see ten tiny faces full of smiles and curiosity. A boy around the age of five, close to his own son's age, tilted his head and gestured

toward the river.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Mama always said we shouldn’t play so close to the river. You could fall in,” the boy chided.

This made his chest tighten. He shook his head and managed a smile. Apparently the Maker was real and was watching over him. Who knew? He ducked back through the railing to stand closer to the boy. “Your mother is right. It was a foolish thing for me to stand so close to the edge.”

The longer he stared at the children, the more he realized his own words rang true.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t fall in,” one of the children said, “otherwise you would have broken your neck.” She shrugged. “Or at least that’s what _my_ mama tells me.”

“Your mama also tells you to eat your green beans and they’ll taste like candy in your belly. I’ve had your mama’s green beans, Mary, and they taste nothing like candy.” He stuck out his tongue and made a disgusted sound.

“Well it is a long way down,” Alistair told them, “so it’s better to keep away and stay safe, rather than be sorry.”

Maker, he was sorry.

“You better take your own advice,” said the oldest boy.

Alistair’s smile was very tired but genuine. “You’re right. I _should_ do that.”

Mary tugged on his sleeve and looked up at him with large gray eyes. “Your Majesty, do you have any puppets?”

Alistair dug around in his fur cloak for a puppet-he usually carried one or two for instances such as these-but realized he must have dropped it at the theater. However, he was not deterred from entertaining the children, for such things gave him a hint of joy amidst his sorrow. He sat down on the bridge and removed his shoe so he could pull off the woolen sock that covered his stockings. Despite not having a needle and thread to sew on some eyes, he slid the sock on his hand using his thumb to make a mouth.

“Oh me, oh my,” Alistair cried in a sad, deep voice, much sillier than his own. The kids giggled. “I’m afraid I’ve recently lost my sight. Would you kind souls help me find my way home?”

Mary squealed with delight and clapped her little mittened hands. “We’d love to help you! But sir, what happened to your sight?”

“Oh! I dare say, a mean old witch snatched my eyes from me.”

“But why?” Asked the oldest boy.

“Well, you see, she was in need of a heart but I refused to give her my own. I told her that I already promised to give it to someone else and so it would be of no use to her. This made her angry. So she said to me,” Alistair changed the pitch of his voice to sound like a raspy woman,”’since you will not give me what I need, I shall take your eyes so that you may never find your heart again.’”

The kids all sighed. Mary said, “but if she took your heart, you’d be dead.”

Alistair made the sock head nod in agreement. “Precisely. But if she took my eyes, I could still find my way home and my way back to the love of my life. I need only to ask for help. So here I am, asking for help.”

A few of the children gasped. “That was a good idea,” said Mary. She grasped the edge of the sock puppet. “Mr. Puppet, if you tell us where to go, we can guide you home.” 

The other children all nodded their heads and gathered in closer to Alistair’s handmade puppet.

“Would you really?” He asked and they all grinned and nodded more fervently. “Well I must thank you for your kindness. I am forever in your debt.” He paused. “One more thing before I tell you. May I ask who is rescuing me?”

“Me. Mary,” said the girl as she pointed to herself. Then she began pointing to all the other children. “Richard, Dawson, Edward, Eliza, Jane, Charlotte, Eloise, Emily, and Jack.”

“Oh wow,” Alistair said in mock surprise. “What a great many of you! I’m sad to not see my saviors but I’m so grateful for your kindness! Now, if you are still willing to help me on my way, I live in the palace beyond the river. Do you think you could take me there?”

“Yes!” They cried in unison. Mary held onto the sock puppet and began tugging it along when they were stopped by Teryn Cousland.

“There you are,” he said to Alistair. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I see you’ve found some young admirers.”

“I did,” Alistair said. “Although they admire Mr. Puppet more than me. They were just about to escort him home.”

Fergus smiled. “Well isn’t that commendable!” His face grew more serious. “I’m afraid I must take over from here, dear children, as I need to escort both Mr. Puppet and the King home.”

“Ahhh,” they all groaned. Frowns replaced the sea of smiles Alistair was enjoying. He gave Fergus a deprecating look.

“I’m willing to be the villain this time,” Fergus said, “but it’s time for you to run along now children.”

They immediately began running in the opposite direction. “Goodbye,” Alistair called out after them.

“I sent for a coach that will be here promptly, Alistair, I’m afraid there’s been some terrible news.”

Alistair braced himself, though he couldn’t imagine how terrible any other news could be.

“Bryce took a fall in the garden and while he is still breathing. He hasn’t woken up.” 

Alistair swore.“I’ve told that boy time and time again not to climb the walls while it’s under construction.” 

“I know.” Fergus placed a hand on Alistair’s shoulder.

They stood in silence as tears slipped down Alistair’s face until the coach pulled up. The voices of shame whispering in his mind grew louder with each passing moment. Both men hurried inside the coach as they rushed off towards the Royal Palace. It seemed years passed even though it had only been minutes before they reached the palace gates. He jumped out, the coach barely stopped and his legs were like jello as he climbed the stairs to the upper floor. He ran as fast as he could down the east wing corridor. Then flew into his son's room. He saw Bryce lying broken on his bed. He kneeled at his bedside and held his hand, planting kisses where tears had fallen. 

“Maker,” he prayed. Though he had a complicated relationship with his faith, he had prayed more in the past months than in his entire life. “Please bring him back to me. Please.” He repeated this over and over again as hours passed. 

The doctor came in after the twelfth hour to check up on Bryce and Alistair and tried to convince him to go to bed.

“I can sleep here,” Alistair said, refusing to leave his son's side. The doctor knew better than to argue so he checked the boy's vitals.

“His heart sounds strong,” he told Alistair, “and his breathing seems normal. However, he had a great fall....”

“What does that mean?” Alistair asked.

“He may not…” The doctor took a deep breath. “He may never wake up. The court mage is on his way, he may be able to do more than I can.”

Alistair could only nod as he stared at his son. The doctor gathered his things and squeezed Alistair on the shoulder before making his way for the door.

“I’ll be back again first thing in the morning and hopefully with a healer by end of week,” he told Alistair before leaving.

Alistair crawled in next to his son and combed his fingers through his reddish brown hair. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I’m so sorry,” he said again and again. 

There was so much guilt in his heart as he recalled the evening’s earlier events. The river had called to him because he had let despair take over. He had lost sight of what he already had. He had lost sight of his son. He knew it wouldn’t be the last time he lost sight.

Alistair wasn’t sure, there in that moment, if he could live for himself but he knew he could live for Bryce’s sake. He _would_ live for his sake. 

“I’ll be here,” he said. “For as long as I can, I will be here.” He wrapped an arm around his son and eventually, weariness got the best of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to give credit to [Viscariafields](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscariafields/pseuds/Viscariafields)  
> and their amazing Bethistair fics,   
> [The Edge of Sadness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26784340/chapters/65339563) and   
> [The Coolness of Your Shadow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983346/chapters/54946597). Those fics got me hooked on Bethistair so I had to write my own fic. But anyway, I highly recommend reading them.


	2. Chapter 2

Bethany Hawke was still awake, sketching by candlelight when a pigeon arrived with a letter in its talons. She plucked it free from its grasp. Patted the bird's head and thanked it before reading.

_ Dearest Bethany, _

_ I hope this letter finds you well. I know you don’t exactly love royalty but during my time in Kirkwall, you were the most proficient healer I knew and also the kindest. King Alistair’s son took a great fall. I think the court healer can keep him stable but I also know such things happen to be your area of expertise. I immediately thought of you, as a true Ferelden and as the greatest healer I know. I wouldn’t have asked except I knew you wouldn’t refuse. Again, I am in your debt. I thank you in advance. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Alfred Waldorf _

Bethany smiled to herself as she went about replying. Alfred was right. She would come to his aid but not because she was some Ferelden loyalist doormat. She also didn’t particularly care for the King. It was Alfred and Alfred alone that she would perform the favor for. Well, and the boy who deserved to live his best life (it wasn’t his fault his father was an ass). Alfred had taught her a great many skills, including how to draft more potent regenerative potions and healing poultices. When Kirkwall had gone up in flames, he was by her side, tending to the hundreds on sick beds needing round the clock care. He never once judged her on the basis of her being a mage and was the first one to recognize her as a person of her own. Not Hawke’s sister, or an apostate, or even a circle mage. No, she had earned her reputation all on her own in his eyes. Besides that, he’d nursed her back to health after all the chaos of Kirkwall when she’d gotten terribly sick and vomited all over him, multiple times. So, she owed him her life, more than once over at that. 

She quickly penned her response and sent the pigeon off. Even with rest, it should make it back before she arrived. She threw her things together for a quick departure. Surely there would be a ship with room for one more passenger on its way across the Waking Sea. If so, then she’d hopefully reach Denerim by end of week. She left a note for her sister, in case she happened to pass through on her way back from her honeymoon (though Bethany was doubtful she would return to the Hawke estate) then blew out the candles and locked the door. She hurried off to The Hanged Man. To no one's surprise, she found Varric playing Wicked Grace with typical riff raff from lowtown. At first the idea of The Viscount hanging out in that filthy den seemed preposterous to her but it was Varric and over time she’d come to face the fact that Varric was Varric no matter what title you handed him. 

However, she  _ was _ surprised to find the Inquisitor there with him.

“Sunshine!” Varric greeted her with a smile as she wandered over to his table. 

She smiled in turn, giving him a peck on the cheek.

“Inquistor,” she bowed her head.

“Please, the Inquisition was disbanded, that title is sodding useless. Malika will do just fine,” she said.

“Right,” Bethany replied. “I’m sorry to interrupt your little game but I need a favor,” she looked to Varric.

“And what’s that?” 

Bethany wrung her hands together. “Passage to Denerim. Quick as possible.”

“Oh that’s easy,” he said, laying down the cards. “Come along Sunshine, we’ll get you set up in no time.”

She followed Varric out of the tavern and down to the docks. 

“What do you need to get to Denerim for?”

“I owe a favor to an old friend.”

“You owing a favor? I never deemed such a thing possible.”

“Yes well, now you know it is.” Bethany adjusted the pack on her shoulder. “I have to ask, am I going to be a stowaway on a smugglers ship?”

Varric shrugged. “You said you needed to get to Denerim quick.”

“I did,” she said warily.

“So does it matter?”

“Well, I guess not but…”

He laughed as they came to a stop at a large cargo ship. “Relax, Sunshine. This is legal. Now wait here.” He left her standing there biting her lip and feeling a bit nervous. Varric had done a lot to clean up Kirkwall but memories of Coterie just jumping out of sewers made her uneasy. Perhaps she’d just spent too much time pent up in her estate.

Varric was back before she could think too hard or long about it.

“Alright, Sunshine. You’re good to go. Just do  _ me _ a favor and write me when you get there. Need to know you got in safe.”

Bethany patted his cheek. “Aw that’s so sweet Varric.”

He grumbled. “Just get on the damn ship.”

She chuckled and got on board, waving at him from the top deck.

“Take care,” he called. And she was off on another grand adventure.

* * *

It had been fourteen years since she’d stepped foot in her homeland. It was much colder and far wetter than she remembered. There was snow and mud everywhere and she should’ve made sure to buy proper shoes–no proper boots. Still, there were mabari everywhere, and many of them had greeted her with open paws and sloppy kisses which made the whole ordeal less bleak. 

Thankfully, Alfred had received her letter and he was there to take her to the King’s son personally when she arrived at the gates. She gave him a quick hug and a peck on each cheek.

“How is the boy doing?” She went straight to business.

“He’s had periods of wakefulness. But lots of confusion. Breathing is normal though. Heart seems fine. I should warn you that there’s been whispers around the court that he’s possessed.”

“Possessed?” Bethany was doubtful. “Has he ever shown signs of being a mage?”

“Not yet, but one can never know. Some mages develop later than others.”

“Oh for Andraste's sake, it’s not puberty.” Bethany shook her head. She expected better from Alfred.

“It’s happened before,” he said. “Arl Eamon’s son, Connor.”

“These things don’t just  _ happen _ ,” Bethany replied, “I’m certain there’s more to that story. It can’t be one day the boy is fine and the next,  _ poof,  _ demon. That’s not how it works.” She rolled her eyes. “Just show me to the King’s son.” At least the idea was somewhat amusing.

Alfred obeyed and Bethany tried not to judge the palace too much. It wasn’t at all like she’d imagined it to be. This one was more dreary dungeon than cheerful castle. A bit dirty for her liking (she’d have to make sure her hem was scrubbed) and dreadfully chilly. She was almost positive it was colder inside than out. She’d have to send for her fur cloak. And if it were any dimmer in the hall she might slam into Alfred if he were to come to a sudden stop. There was a surprising lack of guards—or knights—in too. Quite odd.

“Here we are,” he said, pushing open a large oak door.

The warmth from the fire crackling in the hearth spilled out, drawing her into the room. The King dozed in a chair by his son’s bedside. She would have found him remarkably adorable except for the fact that his son was not in good health. On any other day, Bethany might have taken more than half a second to dwell on the King’s handsomeness but she was on a mission. 

She drug Alfred along with her as she studied the boy.

“How many days has he been awake?” 

“About four days now,” he said.

“What have you been giving him to treat his condition?” Bethany felt his forehead. He wasn’t burning up. Breathing was normal, as Alfred said. She rested her head to his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat. 

“There’s not much to give. He’s received mostly fluids. During periods where he could swallow of course. Wouldn’t want fluid in the lungs.”

She nodded her head. “Very good. And how does he do with the fluids, the swallowing I mean?”

“Seems to swallow just fine. He’s slow at taking the fluids but he there’s been no incidents with choking.”

Bethany nodded. “Excellent. There’s not much more for me to do now. I’ll be keeping my eye on him, helping him adjust. It seems he’s recovering quite well. Many don’t ever recover from such a fall.”

Alfred was fidgeting with his pocket watch. “Yes, it’s true.”

The King stirred then and both their eyes were on him. He rubbed away the sleep then stretched his big arms up high and let out a yawn. Then he sort of jumped back like he was startled. Bethany wanted to laugh. But she remained perfectly reserved of course.

“Who are you?” He demanded, looking quite bemused.

“Bethany Hawke,” she answered with a bow. Though she started second guessing herself and wondered if she should’ve curtsied.

“The Champion of Kirkwall?” 

Bethany tried not to sigh. But it was too late. “That would be my sister.”

“Oh,” he said. Then he straightened himself and his crown. “I’m Alistair. I mean, King Alistair.” It was more of a question than a statement.

Bethany offered her best phony smile.  _ Yes, I know, you’re the former Warden who fumbled his way into ruling a nation. You’re also the one who exiled the Redcliffe mages. You’re the one who forced my closest friend from their home.  _

Thankfully, she let none of her thoughts slip.

With fingertips frosted, soothing the simmering bubble beneath her skin, she politely said, “Good to meet you, King Alistair. In case Alfred hadn’t mentioned it, I’m a healer. I’m here to help your son.”

“Yes. Good. Um, just let someone know if you need anything.” He seemed to be sniffing his shirt and then made a disgusted face. “I’m going to excuse myself. It was nice to meet you um—what was your name again?”

“Bethany,” she said, her hands clasped neatly in front of her. For all she’d suffered in the gallows, it had taught her at least one invaluable skill. The art of patience.

“Bethany. Yes. Well, please excuse me, I’m afraid I’m overdue for a bath.” He left the room then and she swore she heard him whispering  _ Bethany  _ to himself over and over.

She turned to Alfred. “Does he need a healer too?”

“Only if you’re in the business of mending broken hearts.”

Bethany frowned. Well, that wasn’t something to joke about. “Who broke his heart?”

Alfred was a bit bewildered. “You haven’t heard?”

“I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t exactly keep up with Ferelden news and gossip. I live in Kirkwall after all.”

“Ah, yes. I see. His wife passed a few months ago. The King hasn’t been himself. You see, they were deeply in love.”

Now Bethany was feeling bad for him. She didn’t like feeling bad for him. It was much easier to hate the King from her homeland who had treated the mages poorly when he hadn’t lost the love of his life. Ugh, why did Alfred have to go and make her feel  _ compassion  _ for him? 

“I suppose the best thing we can do is give him the space he needs to grieve.”

“I am in agreement,” said Alfred.

Bethany glanced over at the boy who was still asleep. “Well and also making sure to keep his boy alive. I can’t imagine what pain he would suffer if… why don’t you go and get some rest, Alfred. I’ll keep watch here.”

“Thank you. Maker knows I could use a break and a decent night of rest myself.”

“Indeed,” Bethany nodded. “Now, shoo. I’ll see you on the morrow.”

While Bethany waited on the servants to bring her fresh linens, she penned a quick note to Varric. She made sure to tell him she was safe but included a request for more of her things. Then she leaned back and sighed. She had a feeling there would be some long months ahead of her.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Fretting was easy. Not that he preferred his son to be in a state that caused constant fretting. No, he much preferred seeing his son running around the halls with the dog. However, it was a nice circular pattern to chase himself around. Not too dissimilar from the dog and his tail. Simple entertainment with no resolvable end in sight. But another week had passed, speeding up Bryce’s recovery, which meant the kingdom needed tending. Which also meant that Alistair had no more excuses. He groaned and slapped a palm to his face, running it down to curl his fingers in the short hairs of his beard. Twirling, twirling twirling. His plate sat untouched in front of him and he needed to attend a meeting in an hour. 

He hadn’t noticed the new healer slip in. She cleared her throat and he slowly met her gaze. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

Somebody had smacked the panic button in his chest. Alistair shot up, chair clattering behind him. “Bryce?” Hadn’t he been just fine half an hour ago?

She was about to pour milk in her coffee but spilled it all over the table instead. “Maker, no!” She stood then, trying to clean the mess. “No, I meant the Queen—your wife.” 

The napkin just smeared the milk everywhere instead of sopping it up. Curse those napkins.

Alistair’s heart was beating erratically. “So, my son is alright?”

“Yes,” Bethany breathed. She let out a nervous laugh while still attempting to clean. “I should really choose my words more carefully.”

Alistair wanted to chuckle but apparently chuckles kept themselves locked up tight and had thrown away the key. “Yes, I—let me help.” 

“You really don’t need to.”

He grabbed his own napkin and made his way toward her. Why he thought another useless napkin could help he didn’t know. He swore. She started laughing. Then stifled it with a hand over her mouth.

“It’s alright,” she said. “Here, let me take care of this properly.” She waved her hand and the milk disappeared. 

He looked at her and she looked back at him. “Right,” he said, feeling like a complete imbecile. He could use a bit of that magic to disappear himself right about now. Maker. 

“I hope it’s alright for me to use my magic for more than healing?” 

“Yes, yes quite alright.”

She took a deep breath and settled back into her seat. 

“At least let me give you my milk. I can’t mess that up or I don’t think anyway.” He didn’t give her anytime to protest. He fetched her the milk and sat down next to her, leaving his untouched plate of food where it lay. “My wife, she was fond of mages,” he said.

She took a sip of her coffee. “Oh, yes I know.”

“Right.” He nearly kicked himself. Why didn’t he just say  _ he _ liked mages? Maybe that made the entire conversation worse. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. Why did every conversation have to be so awkward? He shut his mouth and started fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. 

She set her cup down. “Curious that a Queen so fond of mages would toss them from her lands in a time of great need.” 

She said it so casually, so quietly that he wasn’t positive she’d said anything at all. Maybe he could pretend he hadn’t heard. But she stared straight at him. Definitely meant for his ears. Alistair’s throat went dry. He coughed. A guilty cough. She sipped, eyeing him with scrutiny through the steam.

“That was a complicated situation,” Alistair finally managed to say. 

“Mmm.” 

He didn’t know such a simple mumble could sound so incredibly judgey. The bell tolled the hour and Alistair had never been more grateful in all his life. “Pardon me but I must be going. Court meeting and such.” He practically sprinted from the room. Rounding a corner in the hall, he leaned up against the wall and counted down from ten, taking slow steady breaths. He could make it through the day. He really could.

* * *

Bethany had told herself not to speak a word of it. In fact, she’d planned to encourage him about how he’s been handling the situation with his son. The man was in the room constantly and he talked to Bryce, sang to him (he wasn’t half bad much to Bethany’s surprise), and he read him stories too. He was a constant and probably the reason Bryce was recovering so well. 

Even if the conversation hadn’t gone where she wanted, she’d rehearsed how her conversations with the King  _ would _ go should they come across the subject. But she had abandoned it all. Without a second thought. At least she’d made it a full week. But now she was so curious about it. What made it complicated? Would it be appropriate to even bring it up to him again? She sighed and wrapped her hands tight around her mug. 

“Good morning,” said the court mage as he sat down where Alistair had been. 

Bethany hadn’t had the opportunity to make introductions. Or thank him for keeping Bryce alive until she arrived. She’d only seen him in passing on occasion. His skills were not in healing so he seemed content to occupy either parts of the castle. He was young for a court mage. Unusual but not unheard of. And in a week’s time, Bethany had come to discover that King Alistair did not often do things in the usual way.

Bethany returned the greeting.

“It really was complicated,” he said. He quickly buttered his toast.

“What?”

“The sending away of the mages.”

“Is that so?” 

“Yes. It wasn’t because they didn’t want the mages. It was just a continual series of unfortunate events.”

“What kinds of events?”

“Well the couple recently found out that the Senior Enchanter leading the Redcliffe mages was Alistair’s mother. So of course, having that sit right under your nose for years can be upsetting when you finally catch a whiff. Then there was the whole siding with Tevinter and tossing Arl Teagan from his lands.”

“Wait,” Bethany said, “Fiona is Alistair’s mother?” She nearly fell out of her chair at the thought.

The mage nodded, “yes.”

“It still seems a bit harsh to throw them all out. Especially when one was his mother.” 

The mage seemed baffled. “Why is that?”

“His newly found mother should have been protected.”

The mage shrugged. “They regretted their actions but not enough to summon them back to court. Besides, they seemed happy enough with The Inquistion.”

Bethany didn’t like the story, not one bit. Though, she did wonder if her judgement was harsh. What would she have done if her mother had done that to her? But her mother would have never done that to her. Her mother had sacrificed so much to protect  _ her _ , a mage. Just like Fiona. Fiona had probably chosen her life to protect her family from the heartache of being closely tied to a mage. She’d chosen a rather selfless life, distancing herself from the King. Bethany might have chosen the same. She finished her cup of coffee. 

She wasn’t being too harsh at all. 

“Have you been here a long time?” asked Bethany after some time.

“It depends on what you consider a long time.”

Bethany didn’t know what to say to that.

“I’ve been at court for two years or so. I played a part in the mage rebellion. The Inquisitor saved my life and I served under their flag for a short time. When my services were no longer needed, I sought out the Queen and asked to serve her in her court. She saved my life when I was a boy.”

“Maker, am I the only one who didn’t join The Inquistion?” 

The mage laughed. “I would be more surprised if you weren’t.” He finished his plate of food then. “I have some business to attend to but it was nice speaking with you. I’d like to speak with you again.”

“You as well. Oh I’m Bethany, by the way,” she said as the mage got up to go. “I wanted to thank you for caring for Bryce.”

“I’m Connor,” he gave a small nod of his head. “And it was my pleasure. Though, I have to say my talents don’t lie in the area of healing.” Then he was gone.

Bethany stared after him, stunned.

* * *

Alistair sat on his throne. He remembered to make his back straighter. To speak louder and with annunciation and he even remembered to smile, on occasion. Slowly, his mind allowed his regular routine to enter his life again. Little fragments at a time. 

_ Sit straighter. Fix your crown. Take a bath. _

He hadn’t managed to eat but he could try that again later. 

“Your Majesty!” 

Alistair blinked. How long had they been shouting at him? He cleared his throat. 

“Yes?” 

He recognized the man. A merchant, he was pretty sure. “Things have gotten worse at The Crossroads. The red lyrium keeps cropping up everywhere. It’s even started to crop up on Redcliffe Farms. We brought it to Arl Teagan’s attention but he said there wasn’t anything he could do. Please, Your Majesty, do something to rid our lands of this.”

All eyes in the courtroom were on him. Drowning in expectation, Alistair’s armpits were sweating and the throne was hard. His ass hurt. Not that it mattered when people were losing their livelihoods to red lyrium. Why hadn’t the Inquisitor taken care of that? Wasn’t that their mess to clean up?

“I will certainly send someone to look into it. We’ll get it taken care of straight away.” He had no clue who the  _ we _ part of that statement was.

Whispers all around him but he couldn’t make them out. The smile from the merchant was a relief as he left the courtroom. But Alistair knew, he in fact, would not get it taken care of straight away, if ever. How did one even go about removing red lyrium? It was too much. That particular problem was better filed away for later. Much later. 

Somebody else stepped forward and Alistair zoned out about four words in. He wanted to check on Bryce. He also wanted to go back to bed and sleep until, well, next year maybe. He leaned over and whispered for Fergus to take over for him. Told him that Colwick, the Royal Mabari could hold court if things got too out of hand. 

Fergus was more than happy to oblige. He chuckled at him, though Alistair was completely serious about the Mabari. That dog was more capable than half the nobles of Ferelden. Maybe more capable than himself. Fergus shooed him out of the throne room. 

Alistair removed his crown and his fancy royal cloak and almost looked like a commoner just there for a visit. A commoner doing common things with a common life–whatever that meant. He made his way to the gardens and took a few deep breaths. For a moment he just stood there, taking in the scent of roses, the bright blue sky, the breath from his own breathing coming out in a tiny cloud. 

_ Everything is alright, Alistair. It’s going to be alright. _

But that’s when he saw it. Not one but a whole dozen roses, snipped off as if they were nothing and in the hand of  _ Bethany _ . 

“What are you doing?” he questioned, more harsh than he should.

She dropped the precious flowers to the ground. 

Even worse! 

“I wanted to bring some in, brighten the castle a bit,” she said, flustered. 

Alistair scrambled onto his knees, gathering the flowers into his arms. The crying coming on so suddenly. Oh, he felt so stupid. So, so stupid. They were just flowers.  _ Just flowers.  _ But they also weren’t  _ just _ flowers. They were years and years of his wife’s handiwork in full bloom. Then wasted and broken and nearly dead in his hands. 

_ Everything was not alright. _

* * *

  
  


She bristled, preparing her speech for why she’d cut the flowers and why it mattered that she did. They’d reminded her of the wild ones in Lothering. Of her home here. They would also look quite lovely, displayed openly in the front foyer. Make it feel less sad there. But none of it came out when she saw him like that. His hands bleeding, tears streaming down his face and his white shirt now stained. She knelt there with him, in the dirt alongside the stone path and wrapped her arms around his neck without thinking. She could only see a man in grief and anything she’d prejudged him for seemed irrelevant. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. 

“It—it’s just roses”, he blubbered. “No need—no need to be sorry.”

He cried harder and Bethany held him tighter. He shook in her arms. The thorns from the roses were poking into her chest but not enough to actually hurt her, just a reminder that they were there. Bethany had no idea how much time passed when King Alistair eventually pulled away. 

He sniffed a little, wiped his nose and eyes on his sleeve and let the flowers just rest in his lap. “This is embarrassing,” he muttered. “You hardly know me and here I am, wreckage at your disposal. 

“No, don’t say that.” She shook her head. “Please, let me help you,” she said holding out her hands. 

He finally noticed he was hurt.

“Oh,” he said. Then placed his bloodied hands over hers.

She told him, “I’m going to perform some minor healing. Are you ready?”

He nodded. She hummed, barely audible, as she pulled from the fade. Gentle waves of soft yellow and muted white light radiated from her hands, stitching his wounds back together until there was nothing noticeable at all.

“There,” she smiled at him, “better?”

He studied his hands, flipping them back to front and front to back. “Thank you,” he said. 

“You’re welcome.” She stood and brushed off her robes. 

The King remained kneeling, thumbing the barely open petals.

“When my brother died, I couldn’t bear for anyone to touch his staff. I couldn’t even bear to look at it really. For a long time too.” 

He glanced up at her, hands stilling on the petals. “Can you now? You know, look at the staff and such.”

“I can look at it, yes. It’s  _ my _ staff now. But I still don’t let anyone else touch it.” 

He seemed to soften at that, like a weight had slipped from his shoulders.

She wanted to tell him he could take as long as he needed to grieve. Tell him that it never gets easier but it gets softer. That the scars left from loving a person were worth keeping. That someday, he would move on in his own way which is never fully forwards but somewhat sideways. But had anyone told her that six months after losing Garret, she wouldn’t have listened. Probably would’ve turned them into ash too. Her words wouldn’t be helpful here.

“I’ll arrange for some flowers to be sent from elsewhere,” she said. 

His eyes were watery again. 

“And I’ll make sure they’re anything but roses.” She bowed then squeezed his shoulder as she exited the garden. Everyone experienced grief differently but if he grieved anything like her, he’d want to be alone. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If we start at the lowest point there’s nowhere to go but up right?
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading 💛
> 
> Playlist for this fic: [holding space](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0gHm2HLF9vY1SFUX30PMmd?si=KprtJkgjTbK32fQrzbWQ9A)


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